Rum and Roses
by Mercurie
Summary: Jack is bitter after the loss of the Black Pearl; Anamaria is an abused cabin girl. Can they rebuild their lives together - or apart? Ch. 5: Drifting
1. Rock Covers Pistol

Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with _The Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl_. 

**A/N:** I'm writing this fic in response to **cal**'s request for a Jack/Ana story, and because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It takes place right after Barbossa and the crew maroon Jack the first time. I put Jack at about 22-23 years old and Ana at 16. Enjoy! 

_Rum and Roses_

I: Rock Covers Pistol

The man on the beach might have been named Delectable, or Roguish, or Suave, or Irresistible. He was, in every sense of the word, an extraordinary male specimen. Sprawled picturesquely on the sand, his skin tanned a flawless bronze, his finely chiseled features framed by a mane of untamed brown tresses, he was an image no female with a heart could refuse. He had discarded his shirt in the tropical heat, exposing wiry muscles and mysterious scars to the sun's warmth. Even in repose, his posture screamed of reckless courage and rapacious wit. Any woman would have swooned at the sight.

Unfortunately, there were no women on this god-forsaken, desolate bit of rock, and Jack Sparrow's charms were expended wholly on the bottle of rum in his hand. In fact, no other human could be found within tens, possibly hundreds of miles – except perhaps the mutinous crew of the _Black Pearl_, which had lately sailed away with Captain Sparrow's favorite lady: his ship.  

Jack's fingers closed too tightly around the bottle's neck. The glass crunched, splintered, and drove shards into his left hand. He gazed blearily at the injury, the pain reaching him slowly through a dull haze of inebriation. 

"Bloody pirates," he mumbled, "Bloody rum. Bloody hand." He threw the broken bottle violently, hearing it splash into the sea a few yards away. Perhaps the turtles would get some fun out of it. As for Jack, for the first time in his life he found that alcohol failed to solve his troubles. It didn't bring his ship back, it didn't get him off this island, and it didn't drown his anger. In fact, the huge, hidden stash of rum in the middle of the island was completely useless to him. 

The experience was rather disturbing. In the past, whenever Jack had a problem he simply drank himself into a stupor. When he awoke the next morning, he had always either forgotten whatever trouble had come up or was too busy nursing a hangover to care anymore. This time his usual plan of action had failed. The rum had refused to work its magic, and Jack Sparrow was all out of ideas. 

He groaned and tried to wipe the blood off his hand onto his shirt. Unfortunately, his shirt was not in its usual place, and he ended up smearing blood all over his chest instead. Realizing this, he stared at his red handiwork, gritting his teeth in an effort to control the oncoming temper tantrum. The attempt, like so many things recently, failed utterly.

"_Bloody pirates!"_ Jack yelled, jumping up and nearly falling right down again. He grabbed handfuls of sand from the beach and flung them violently in every direction. "Just wait 'til I get me hands on the lot of yeh! _Mutineers!_ I'll see you in hell, you rabid, filthy, mange-ridden dogs! I'll see you _burn!_ Bloody, worthless ingrates! Soulless traitors! " Bending down became too precarious, so he began to kick at the sand instead. Golden grains sprayed wildly in every direction and landed grittily on his face. Irritated, Jack drew back his foot for another mighty kick, lost his balance, and fell heavily and ignominiously onto the sand.

He lay there for a moment, wondering what had happened. 

"'S all useless, love," he rambled, his drunken tongue slurring the words to near incomprehensibility, "'s gone, all of it. Got nothin' left… cap'n without a ship's like a fish in a bowl. Can't do nothing. No crew, no ship, no treasure, no life. Might as well turn myself in to the authorities right now. Once I find some."

Except, of course, that Barbossa and the whole lot of them would get away with it then. Bitter as he was, Jack was far more furious. He'd sworn revenge on his former first mate, and when he said revenge, he meant all-out, blood-splattering, scream-inducing, cosmically ironic, legendary, merciless revenge. 

Unfortunately, revenge was as far out of reach as everything else. Jack threw his arms out on the sand in surrender to the tropical sun. Even the golden light mocked his helplessness. To think that Jack Sparrow, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow, had been tricked, overwhelmed, and marooned by his own crew…

His right hand found an object. Turning his head with an effort, he saw a beautiful thing lying next to him. It was a pistol, black, with lovely gold inlays, shining in the sun like a treasure. 

Something was within reach after all. 

Jack sat up carefully, drew the weapon towards him and brandished it in his uninjured hand. It gleamed cheerily, the only friend he still possessed. 

"Why not?" he muttered drunkenly, "I'll see them in hell. In hell. Ha. Then they'll pay. Yes, in hell." He gazed at the pistol a moment longer, then raised it to his temple. His eyes traveled up to the blue sky and an asymmetrical grin appeared on his lips. "See you in hell!" he growled incoherently as his finger clenched.

There was a loud _thunk_ and his vision wavered for a moment. When it returned, he was still on the beach and his skull was reverberating like a drum. 

"Thunk?" he asked the air, "Nay, mate. Pistols don't say 'thunk.' More like 'bang.' Or maybe 'pop.' But probably more like 'bang.' Savvy?" He caught sight of the pistol, lying by his foot with a rock next to it, and frowned. "How did you get over there?" 

Slowly, he began to understand that he was not dead. The rock had attacked the pistol and knocked it from his hand before he could pull the trigger. Except that rocks didn't usually attack people or save their lives. Generally, people threw rocks. 

Enlightenment burst upon him and he twisted around, scanning the beach. His eyes lighted on a person standing on the edge of the sand, in the shade of a palm tree.

"Hey!" he called, staggering to his feet and taking the pistol with him. 

The person took a quick step back, spun around, and sped away towards the interior of the island. Long, black hair whirled in the hot air and bare feet flashed. Jack ran, in a more or less straight line, in pursuit. He was fast, but drunk, and the nameless visitor outpaced him easily. 

Sand turned to sparse grass and palm trees. Jack sped up, feeling as if he was about to fall onto his face with every step, his feet slipping on the soft, warm ground. He had an inkling of where they were headed. There was only one place on the island worth running to, one place where people might be. An area, somewhat of a clearing, near the center of the landmass. The place where he'd found the rum. 

He stumbled into the small cleared space and found twenty pistols trained on him. That stopped him in his tracks. His hands sought the air and he tried to look non-threatening, which was hardly difficult, considering that shamelessly drunk, uncoordinated men are rarely intimidating.

They were obviously pirates or outlaws of some kind, dressed in the usual wardrobe of stained shirts, leather accessories, and big, pompous hats. All of them bore swords and guns and none looked happy to see Jack. This was worrying, since Jack's first thought upon seeing them was that they must have come on a ship. And if they'd come on a ship, they would leave on one. And if they left on a ship, he might leave with them. Accordingly, he tried his best to be pleasant. 

"Welcome to my island," he said with a wavering sweep of a bow, "Help yourself to the rum – take all you want – there's plenty to go 'round."

A moment of silence reigned. Then one of the men threw back his head and barked a strident laugh. He returned his pistol to his belt, walked over, and gave Jack a light shove. This proved too much for an addled sense of balance: Jack toppled over without resistance. Stunned, he lay looking up at his tormenter. The man was tall, with extremely broad shoulders, scraggly red hair and beard, a broken nose, multiple gold and silver teeth, and a host of freckles crossing his face. The expression on his face was amused rather than hostile. 

"Thanks, mate," Jack growled from the ground, "Much obliged to yeh. I've been longing to fall over but couldn't quite manage it meself. Nice to know there's a helpin' hand out there." 

"Least he's got a sense of humor," the man said gruffly, grabbing Jack's hand and pulling him to his feet again. "What you be doin' on our island, boy?"

"Your… island?" Jack parroted. "Ah, yes – _your_ island. Of course. What?"

"Yes, _our_ island. They call me Captain Moore. My ship is the _Demerara_, and that be her crew. This is our island you're standing on, and our rum you're drunk on."    

It clicked. Rum runners. They'd come to pick up some bottles to sell. If he played it right, they might pick him up as well. To think he'd just almost… if it hadn't been for that rock…

Jack examined the circle of faces. One of these men had thrown that rock. Why didn't he speak up? Why, for that matter, had he run away? None of the eyes showed any recognition. None of these men looked the type to randomly save someone's life and then run like blazes. Of course, it was hard to tell what such a person would look like anyway. Had he perhaps imagined the whole episode? 

Then someone on the outskirts of the ring moved, and Jack knew he'd found his man. Or woman, as it were, since the person in loose men's clothes and a black bandana was quite definitely a woman. A girl, rather – she looked about sixteen. The black hair he'd glimpsed hung below her shoulders, revealing a face that might have been pretty, if he could've gotten a look at it. As soon as she noticed him watching, her eyes darted away and she retreated behind a larger, male member of the crew. 

"Yeh might want to put that down, lad," Moore said. 

Jack blinked and looked down at the pistol in his hand. He grinned lopsidedly. "Couldn't do much damage with this, mate. Only got one bullet in her."

Moore's expression darkened to a scowled. "Marooned, eh? What'd you do, kill a crew member? Mutiny against the captain?"

"I _was_ the captain," Jack said coldly. 

"Ah," Moore said, "That changes things. Well, Mr. – "

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow."

" – Captain Jack Sparrow, I suppose yeh'll be wanting passage off this rock?"  

"I would be most obliged," Jack said with his most charming smile, "very grateful, in fact."

"Got anything to pay your way?"

Jack spread his arms ironically. "I am as you see. And I'm saving the pistol for my first mate." 

Moore examined him critically. "Can't say I blame yeh. Well, captains have to stick together. I'll take you on – you can work off your passage. A man can never have too many deckhands, eh?" 

"My humblest thanks," Jack said with a smile. His life, it seemed, had taken a sudden turn for the better. A way off this island, a ship full of rum, a chance for revenge and – a mystery. The moment he'd spotted the girl who had saved his life via an unlikely rock, he knew he had to lay his curiosity to rest. Finding out her name, weaseling out her motivations and her history, promised entertainment and a possible challenge. If she was pretty, entertainment of a different kind might follow. 

There was nothing in the world, Jack decided, better than a pirate's life. 

Had elation and rum not dimmed his wits, Jack might have noticed the look that passed between Captain Moore and the girl in the black bandana. He might have seen Moore's scowl and the threat in the captain's stare. He might even have discerned the blanching of the girl's face and the fear shining in her eyes. He might have wondered a little. Even so, he could hardly have guessed the trouble in which a rock and a pretty face were about to land him. 

*******

**A/N:** This chapter was Ana-lite, but there'll be a lot more of her in the next one. Stick around!       


	2. Wounds

**A/N:** Unfortunately, ff.net isn't letting me see any reviews, so I have no idea who read and responded to the last chapter. Rest assured that I'm grateful anyway and I hope you keep reading! 

_Rum and Roses_

II: Wounds

Anamaria didn't have a last name. In her opinion, she didn't need one, especially not a stupid one like that Jack Sparrow fellow who kept staring at her had. No name was better than a bird's name – particularly a small, irritating, dirty bird's name. Sparrow might not be small, but he was definitely irritating and dirty. The worst part was, the crew had put him in her care, owing to her feminine healing abilities or some such nonsense. Just one more drawback of being the only woman aboard. 

She'd tried to argue with Alexander – Captain Moore, she attempted to remind herself, but the illusion of distance was pointless – but he only snapped at her. She knew he'd been angry with her for wandering off, and downright furious when she brought back the marooned captain. Not that Alexander had a problem with giving Sparrow passage. He just didn't like the fact that Sparrow seemed more than little interested in her. 

However, Alexander knew nothing about treating injuries, and Anamaria did have a rudimentary knowledge of medicine. Besides, he sensed she wanted to stay away from Sparrow. To Alexander, this was all the more reason to force them into each other's company, at least temporarily. As a result, she was forced to bandage the arrogant new crewmate's hand. Knowing that Alexander would make her pay for it later only made everything worse. It wouldn't take long for his jealousy to flare up, and then she'd be in trouble. 

Anamaria had obtained a place among the rope coils on deck where the two of them were mostly out of the crew's sight. The last thing she needed was spying deckhands to go running to Alexander with fabricated tales. Only wind and twine provided company as she concentrated on cleaning and tying up Sparrow's hand. He didn't speak during the process, something she found both surprising and relieving. On the other hand, his stares were louder than words. She refused to return the looks. Once in a while he would move and his clothing would rustle or the beads in his hair would clink, but otherwise she almost succeeded in ignoring his existence. 

She'd found Sparrow a shirt, at least. Not that forced modesty stopped him from making shameless advances. Her deliberate roughness in binding up his bleeding wound didn't provoke so much as a wince. In fact, he seemed more amused than anything else. It made her powerfully uncomfortable, and her task seemed to take endless hours. The sun had begun to set when she'd finished, and she was looking forward to escaping belowdecks into the safe, comforting darkness of the ship. 

"Thanks, love," Sparrow said with a smile that set his golden tooth flashing, "You've a soft touch." 

Anamaria gritted her teeth. She did _not_ have any softness about her and she detested mockery. If only she hadn't thrown the damn rock, none of this would have happened. That's what you got for meddling in other people's affairs. Not gratitude, but exploitation and ridicule. It was a lesson she planned to remember. 

"Finished," she said curtly, drawing her hands away with relief, "now if you don't mind, I have to go – "

He grabbed her wrist as she rose to leave. "Go where, love? I don't think they need you right now." 

Anamaria restrained an urge to tear her arm away and run. Apprehension and disgust warred for mastery over her. She struggled for a moment to contain her anger, wanting desperately to look cool and unaffected. It was something her temper had never let her achieve, and this occasion was no exception. "First of all, this isn't your ship, so you haven't an inkling what anyone needs. Second of all, I'm a cabin girl, so someone always wants me. And thirdly, let go of my hand!" 

"Only if you promise not to run away," Sparrow said with a smirk he probably meant as an enticing smile. 

"I do not _run away_," she snapped, feeling her jaw jut as it always did when she was simultaneously furious and helpless. "I have _work_ to do, Sparrow. You may not have noticed, being too busy with your important deliberations, but I am a member of this crew."  

Sparrow nodded solemnly. "The resident guardian angel." He released her hand suddenly and she drew it back, rubbing the wrist joint even though it didn't hurt. His grip had been gentle. 

"What?" she couldn't help asking. Instinct told her to leave now – Alexander would be paying close attention to just how much time she spent with this man. Long enough was chastisement and acceptable; too long was impudence and punishable. A perilously fine line separated the two. 

"Isn't that what you do?" Sparrow asked with an innocent lift of his eyebrows. His expression betrayed no inner thoughts. "Or perhaps you've taken it upon yourself to be _my_ guardian angel," he added with another impertinent smile. 

Anamaria's grin resembled a panther's bared teeth. Her heart pounded feverishly, but she made sure her voice remained calm. "I don't know what you mean."

"I rather think you do. Captain Jack Sparrow's not dimwitted, love – I know rocks don't throw themselves. And I recognize pretty girls when I see them."

Anamaria folded her arms defensively. Realizing what she'd done, she unfolded them again quickly. He'd already noticed, of course, so she blurted out something to distract him. "So what?" Nothing else followed, and she stood silently, feeling distinctly foolish.

"So why did you do it?"

She blinked. "What do you mean, why? It was the decent thing to do, wasn't it?"

He shrugged. "In theory, yes. But come on, love – we're pirates. We're not decent. Every one of us is a rotten, dissolute, self-centered man."

"I won't argue with that! But I'm not a man."

"You don't like men much, do you?" he asked, cocking his head with a grin. 

"Men are fine. It's cads I don't like," she answered, the implication clear. 

"Then why save one's life?" Sparrow obviously didn't plan to drop the subject. It wasn't that she minded answering – she just didn't know how. In all honestly, Anamaria didn't know why she had prevented Sparrow from shooting himself. There was no sentiment involved, to be sure. It had just seemed like the right thing to do. 

"Why not?" she countered to avoid the question, "what does it matter? Why shouldn't I stop you from blasting your brains out?"

"Perhaps I didn't want to be saved."

Startled, Anamaria glanced at him, and found herself caught by his eyes. It wasn't that they were particularly beautiful. Sparrow's eyes were an ordinary shade of brown, a bit darker than usual perhaps, but nothing more. It was the darkness of pain that gave them vibrance and seized her attention. For all his relaxed stance, those dangling arms and bare feet, the slumping shoulders and loose muscles, his gaze burned with almost palpable tension and bitterness. She'd seen such a look before, and it frightened her this time as much as it had then. 

"Don't be silly," she said hoarsely, "Everyone wants to live." 

"Depends what you have to live for." He shrugged dismissively, still holding her gaze. 

"I suggest you find something on your own. It's hardly my business to give people reasons to live."

"No," he laughed hollowly, "you only save them when they don't ask for it. And then desert them."

"You are not my responsibility!" Anamaria said furiously, raging at the injustice, "If you're unhappy, it's none of my business! I saved you – you should be grateful! Instead you try to make me feel guilty for something that's entirely your fault! Well, Sparrow, you were right. I don't like men much, and I like you less than most!" 

Quivering with anger, she left him there and stalked away. Blinded by rage, she didn't notice the deckhands glancing at her as she passed. It was only when she reached the belowdecks entrance and saw lamplight streaming through the doorway that she realized night had fallen in earnest. 

Horror overwhelmed her immediately. Too long! She'd passed long enough minutes ago. Alexander would be furious. For a moment her heart quailed. Why hadn't she cut the conversation off sooner? It was Jack Sparrow's fault, she told herself, choking on a potent mixture of anger and fear. Sparrow had upset her and now, because of Sparrow, Alexander would make her pay. It wasn't fair; but then, nothing had ever been fair in Anamaria's short life. 

She crept down into the body of the ship, hoping to slip past the captain's cabin and to her own closet, shared with two other crewmembers. A lantern lit the _Demerara'_s interior hallway, but Alexander's door remained closed. She began to hope again. Perhaps he'd forgotten about her, fallen asleep… she chose to ignore the fact that he'd never forgotten about her before. There was a first time for everything. 

Silent as a black cat, she stole down the hallway. The captain's door lay behind her; the other cabins were quickly passed. No one came after her. He must have overlooked her long absence, she decided with a flood of relief. The next moment she stood before her door. Her bunkmates would be inside, one or both of them, and she would be safe, for tonight at least. 

Anamaria opened the door, ready for a night of respite. It would not be granted her. A man waited inside the tiny closet cabin, but he was not one of her bunkmates. Instead, Captain Alexander Moore waited in the middle of the small space, a threatening thunder cloud darkening his face. The bunks behind him lay empty. There was nothing else in the room but a little table and a lantern. 

The captain reached out one long arm and shut the door behind her. Anamaria felt suddenly claustrophobic.

"Alexander…" she whispered. 

His smile was deceptively sweet. "Have a nice chat with our passenger?"

"No," she said, knowing this would not satisfy him. Alexander Moore did not like people touching his possessions, and in his mind, she belonged to him. 

"No? I doubt that. You were together for a long time. What did you talk about?"

She couldn't tell him about the pistol and the rock. Or about Sparrow's too-friendly manner. Grasping for a reply, she hesitated too long. 

"_What_," he bellowed, slamming his hand against the door next to her head, "did you talk about?"

She slipped deftly under his arm, backing away as far as she could. "Nothing. You told me to bandage his hand. That's what I did. What could we talk about, Alexander? You know I don't like him. That's why you made me treat the wound."

"He seems to like you well enough."

"I can't help that!"     

"Can't you? Don't bother lying, darling, it's not your specialty. I know how the men on this ship look at you, being the only woman on board. You don't exactly discourage them, do you?"

"That's ridiculous," she protested, hearing her voice tremble. It shamed her, but she could not control it. "I don't ask for attention. You can't blame me for what others do."

"I'm the captain of this vessel," he grinned, "I do whatever I want. And right now, I want to make sure you understand that you are _my_ woman and not the whole ship's."  

One of his hands found the back of her neck. The other arm pressed her against the cold cabin wall. She didn't bother to struggle. It had happened too many times before to make a difference. 

*******

**A/N:** Please pay no attention to my complete ignorance of ship geography and nautical terms. Since this is mostly a side project, I'm not doing any research on it. Hope you liked. Chapter 3 will hopefully follow soon. 


	3. Falling Overboard

**A/N:** Thank you so much to all my reviewers! I thought this story was going to be a side project, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. Jack is just so damn fun. :D Enjoy chapter 3!

_Rum and Roses_

III: Falling Overboard

Most people would have accused Jack Sparrow of not having a conscience. This wasn't entirely true: he had one, he just chose not to use it much of the time. At the moment, for example, drinking a bottle of rum pinched from his rescuers' cargo hold wasn't eliciting the slightest twinge. 

The liquid sloshed sweetly in the bottle and he savored its taste in his mouth. Night was the best time for drinking, partly because that was when the bars were most lively, partly because only at night was the world so peaceful. Perched on the railing of the _Demerara_'s prow, the open sea stretched out before him in a darkly sparkling vista. The cloudless sky allowed moon and starlight to fall onto the dim water, shimmering on the tops of little white waves stirred up by the ship's passing. The familiar rush of the ocean lulled him into rare contentment. This was life: a ship, a bottle of rum, and water all around. 

Except the _Demerara_ was a far cry from the _Black Pearl_, and no amount of alcohol could make him forget that. The drink turned sour in his mouth at the thought of Barbossa sailing away with his ship. 

He tossed the half-filled bottle into the sea and rested his head in his hands. The brief moment of peace had vanished once more. He had tried without interruption to forget the mutiny for a time. There was no sense in dwelling on it – he could take no action until they reached a port, and that would be days yet. Nothing to do but wait. Jack had never been good at waiting. Oh, he knew the importance of the 'opportune moment,' as he liked to put it, but delaying until that moment had caused him trouble more than once. Impassive his face might remain, but he chafed inside. 

He didn't forget either. Every time he closed his eyes, the _Pearl_ loomed before him, her black sails billowing under another man's command. An imaginary first mate would grin, and Jack would grit his teeth in an effort to remain calm. He would have loved to break out into another screaming fit of temper, but that wasn't an option on board the _Demerara_. Here, he had to lie low until the situation turned to his favor. 

Jack gazed despondently at the softly breaking waves. Thoughts of revenge filled his head, but no plans. The truth was, even if he were off this ship and on his way again, he had no idea how to go about getting the _Pearl_ back. It seemed both his famous resourcefulness and infamous audacity had run out. He cursed himself silently, trying to force his atrophied brain to work, but the gray fog in his head remained. Jack had been in numerous tight places, but never had his own intelligence failed him. It wasn't that he felt confused, exactly, just… blank. Empty. He couldn't spur himself, he couldn't unearth a single reason to bother doing – anything. The _Pearl_ seemed hopelessly distant. So distant that apathy overwhelmed him at the thought of hunting her.

Jack Sparrow felt immensely sorry for himself. 

The pirate ex-captain had fallen into this dismal state of self-pity when a small noise behind him broke into his gloomy thoughts. He tensed but did not turn around. It sounded vaguely like a sniff, but he couldn't imagine what someone would be smelling up here. The sea air, perhaps? He scoffed at the idea. Pirates didn't notice the smell of salt. 

Something moved on his left and he turned his head slowly. A person stood by the railing, hands on the wood and head down. He noted with some surprise that it was the cabin girl, Anamaria. He'd forgotten all about her. 

"Come out to see the sights, love?" he asked, and almost winced. It had sounded surly and feeble, not nearly as witty as he wanted. 

Anamaria jerked around. Apparently, she hadn't seen him. Odd, considering he was standing in plain sight. She remained uncertainly still, one hand clenched on the rail, gazing at him through the dark. He couldn't see her face, but something about her stance struck him as curious. 

"Sparrow? What do you want?"

He wanted his ship. That, however, didn't seem like a good answer at the moment. He sidled closer, playing for time. Useless time, as it turned out, since the best answer he could come up with was a murmured, "Nothing."  

"You already have that," she retorted, but her heart wasn't in it. Her voice sounded husky. Jack suspected she wanted him to go away, but he wasn't about to comply with the saucy wench's unspoken request. Her comment irritated him. It had caught him off-guard; worse, it was too close to what he'd been thinking. It was bad enough that he felt worthless. He couldn't bear to think how others might see him – as a poor, pathetic, hopeless swaggerer with a big mouth and nothing else. 

"It seems we're in the same boat, love." He smiled to cover his discomfort, mildly pleased with the pun. Anamaria, however, didn't take the remark well. She grimaced angrily and glared at him. 

"We are _not_," she snapped, "and never will be in the same boat! If it were up to me, we would've left you on that island! If it were up to me, we'd throw you overboard this moment! If – " She cut off. Jack was laughing. 

"You'd like to be captain, would you? Let me tell you, love, it's harder than it looks." 

"It can't be, if you could do it. But then, you weren't much good at it, were you?"

"Dangerous waters, love," Jack said, grinning with a painful effort. "Wouldn't swim in them, if I were you. If you're so interested in being captain, why don't you go ask our dear friend Moore? I'm sure he'd be more than happy to instruct you in the necessary skills."

She stiffened visibly. "What do you mean by that?" Her voice held a threatening undertone that Jack was too angry to heed. 

"There must be certain advantages to being the only woman aboard a ship of rum runners. With the right kind of persuasion, a pretty thing like you could get whatever she wanted from the crew… or the captain."

It happened so quickly he had no time to react. Anamaria's hand flashed, and suddenly his cheek stung like fire. Before he even managed to pull himself together, she slapped him again. The third time he managed to grab her arm before the blow connected. She tried to wrest herself away, but he held on stubbornly.

"What did I do to deserve that?" he asked softly. 

Anamaria's face was twisted with rage. Her wide eyes shone in the starlight, fixed unwaveringly on him, and her chest rose and fell in angry pants. "Let go of my arm!" she demanded. 

"I don't think so," Jack said benignly, "Hate to admit it, but I'm really not in the mood to be slapped tonight. Can't think why. Must've been something I ate."

"You can eat poison for all I care!" 

"That's not very nice," he reflected. "What's such a pretty girl doing thinking such ugly thoughts?" 

In response, Anamaria tried to yank her arm away, but he only gripped it more tightly. She made a sound suspiciously similar to a muffled yelp. 

"What's this?" he wondered aloud, suddenly curious. He pushed back her sleeve and bared the skin to the moonlight. Even in the dark, the black bruise on Anamaria's forearm was plain to see. Despite her protests, he examined it; it looked fresh. "Where did you get that?" he asked, glancing up at her.

"I dropped something on it," she replied hastily. Jack snorted.

"Sure you didn't run into a door, love? Or fall down the stairs?" He continued to examine her, his gaze traveling up her arm until it found another bruise on her neck, half hidden by her shirt. "Drop something there, too?" He cocked his head and peered at the mark thoughtfully. 

"I'll drop something on you if you don't release me." The hostility in her voice was almost palpable. 

Shaking his head, Jack let go of her arm. "Only trying to help, love," he said, "can't blame a man for that, can you?"

"Who needs your help?" she sneered, "You're the worst pirate I've ever seen, and a pitiful excuse for a captain. You couldn't manage your own ship – don't think you can help me!" She turned away suddenly, facing out to sea in stony silence. 

"Right to my heart," Jack said sorrowfully, hold a fist martyr-like to his breast. He'd had about enough of this girl. His mood was dark enough without slaps and nasty comments. The time had come to get violently drunk and forget all this. If only he hadn't thrown that bottle of rum overboard… well, there was plenty more. He ought to be able to swipe enough to wash away his troubles. "It's been wonderful chatting with you, but I'm afraid I really must go." 

Anamaria didn't answer. She was probably as relieved to see him go as he was to get away from her. Obviously, it would never have worked between them. A shame, but there were plenty of fish in the sea. Anyway, this one was a shark. 

Jack strode easily away, already dismissing Anamaria from his mind. Rum was kinder than any woman. His foot found the rung of the ladder descending to deck and he turned to climb down – and froze. 

He hadn't heard Anamaria move. She had climbed onto the railing and was balanced precariously on the edge, leaning over the water. The night breeze blew her hair forward like a death shroud; the moon outlined her body, casting a shadow onto the deck. No matter how strong of a swimmer she was, if she fell into the ship's path the undertow would hold her beneath the waves long enough to… well, too long. Not that she would care. Falling was hardly the danger here. The thought crossed his mind that she must be very desperate. She hadn't even waited until he left.

A second later he snapped out of shock and shot back up the ladder. He crossed the deck in two seconds, and then he had his arms around her waist, pulling her back to the safe confines of the ship. She shrieked once and fell deathly silent, as if frightened by the sound. 

Then she began to writhe wildly, and the two of them dropped to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs, and curses. She was wiry and surprisingly powerful; it took all his strength to pin her beneath him, keeping her arms still and away from his face. She struggled fruitlessly for a few more moments before collapsing suddenly. 

Jack stared down, his face inches from hers. Her eyes were huge and her breath tickled his cheek. Tears glimmered quite clearly on her face. He felt a twinge of sympathy and wished he hadn't been so harsh before.    

"And what was that?" he said quietly, "A night swim?"  

"Why not?" she whispered, "Better than a pistol, isn't it?" 

"Neither one seems very inviting. Your face is too handsome to be drowned, love." 

"I'd rather it were ugly," she said bitterly. 

The facts were beginning to make unpleasant sense to Jack. He was an unscrupulous scoundrel, but some things repulsed him. Harming women was one of them. Despite his habit of staying aloof, he felt himself warming to this prickly, proud girl with her bruises and her painful secret. He wondered if the crew knew. Probably not – the captain would hardly want such information public. 

"If I let you up, will you promise not to try again? And don't slap me either," he added as an afterthought. 

Anamaria hesitated a moment before nodding. He eased off of her and sat back on his heels, watching her recuperate. It didn't take long. Soon the tears were gone and the thorny façade back in place. She studiously avoided his gaze, straightening her hair and clothing.

She stood, and he found himself looking up at her. "I have to go," she said vaguely. 

"You think so?" He rested his elbows on his knees, hands dangling carelessly between his legs.  

"I have to," she reiterated, "There's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Something can always be done." He spoke nonchalantly, as if conversing with himself. "There are plenty of ships out there. Why stick with this one? Mine is much better, I assure you. I'll be needing a new crew once I get her back, anyway." 

She shook her head and left, a ghost disappearing into the night. 

Jack watched her retreat thoughtfully. Her tacit refusal of his offer didn't bother him. In fact, he felt his mind and will stirring to life again. Here was a lady in trouble, one much closer than the lost _Pearl_, and in graver danger. Something would have to be done.  


	4. Together and Alone

_Rum and Roses_

IV: Together and Alone

Anamaria liked rum as much as the next man. More, in fact—she liked it too much. Her love of drink was only one of the many things that left her helpless with rage and shame. She didn't want to rely on liquor. She didn't want to rely on anything. It seemed like too much of a concession to the harsh forces of the world. 

Nevertheless, some days the desire for sweetness and oblivion became too strong, and in a ship full of rum such cravings were hard to refuse. She had not been able to sleep after her encounter with Sparrow on deck. She had lain for an hour in her bunk, staring into darkness and listening to the breathing of her cabin mates. It baffled her how they could sleep so soundly, with easy minds and light hearts. She envied them. Her own repose was troubled by images that would not let her rest: Alexander, the stars, the railing on deck, bottles of rum, dark waves, and always, always, always Jack Sparrow. Anamaria was not one to brood, but the irritating insightfulness of Sparrow, the haunting familiarity of his eyes, wove a net around her unwilling, wakeful mind. 

After an hour, she left the bunk, troubled by claustrophobia. She took only one thing with her, a small object wrapped in a piece of cloth. The watch acknowledged her with a wave when she stepped on deck. She waved back absently and wandered away along the side of the ship. 

She knew where there were a few bottles of rum hidden among the rope coils. It was practically a public stash; everyone knew about it and turned a winking eye. When the bottles were gone, someone always replenished them. The captain let it pass, figuring it would cause less profit loss if he let his crew have a reasonable quota of rum instead of inducing them to steal it. Anamaria rarely took advantage of the cache, but she was in the mood tonight. 

She took a bottle and, for lack of a better objective, climbed to the crow's nest. The stars were very bright, the moon pure and luminous. She huddled in the cramped space, soothed by sounds of creaking rope and wood. The ship slept below her, sailing gracefully in the brilliant night. It looked almost femininely beautiful. She marveled at the fact that something so exquisite could be a prison. But it was, and she felt her confined soul yearning for freedom, for vastness, for open spaces where it could expand to its natural breadth. 

Despair threatened. For a moment, she felt as if she were falling into an endless black hole, a great nothingness where the tiny spark of her consciousness would be extinguished once and for all. She felt the stifled, solitary fear of life faced with the certainty of death, the fear of living and dying in a trap. The mast seemed like a skewer thrusting her into the blackness of the night sky, the ship an island a million miles below. An hour ago she had desired death. Now she feared both it and its opposite. 

Anamaria unstoppered the bottle and took a swig of rum. Its rough heat coursed into her body, driving away the demons of despondency. She mused briefly on the healing powers of alcohol before gulping down half the bottle. Drinking in such a precarious position did not bother her. She had a head for heights, a good liver, and, most importantly, a total disregard for her own safety. 

The drink cleared some of the cobwebs of depression from her mind. Humming under her breath, she fiddled with the object she had brought from her bunk. Removing the cloth revealed a small, unadorned mirror. She examined it with deliberate aimlessness, knowing all the while she had carried the thing up here for a reason. 

Finally, she sighed and gazed into the innocuous glass. There it was: the inevitable truth, the one she had not wanted to see but could not deny. No wonder Sparrow's eyes had looked so familiar. They were the same as her own. Dark, deep, vivid, vibrant with pain and paranoia and sarcasm, eyes that should belong to madmen, eyes that strove to match the masks of the face and always failed. The recognition was no shock. She had known it all along. They had nothing in common, the two of them, except that mutual thread of sensitivity and depth, stained by the accumulated misery of their secret lives. And that one thing was already too much. 

In a fit of resentment, she hurled the mirror away. It flashed in the moonlight before vanishing into the waves. She hoped the sea would get some pleasure out of it. Leaning dangerously into the air, she let the salty breeze sweep her hair back. As she teetered in this position, she caught sight of the subject of her fevered reflections. Apparently, Anamaria and Jack Sparrow had another thing in common: insomnia.  

He was sprawled, wide awake, on his back on the deck below, and she knew he had been watching her. For some reason, it didn't bother her this time. Probably because of the rum. Feeling reckless and giddy, she raised one hand and waved slowly with self-destructive joy. The one gesture was enough. It was as if they connected for a split second, and then he was on his feet and climbing the ropes like a monkey. 

The crow's nest was not meant for two. Though she had tacitly consented to speak to him, Anamaria balked at touching Jack, so they were forced to stand, leaning slightly away from each other. She offered him the bottle of rum and he took a drink with studied seriousness, as if accepting a medal of honor from a queen. 

"Lovely view," he commented after swallowing. 

"Yes," she answered. They were looking at each other.

"For those who can appreciate it, of course," he added as an afterthought. 

"Like us?" 

"Who else, love? Unless, of course, this ship is a secret haven for appreciative philosophers." 

Anamaria laughed grimly. "You're a clown, Sparrow." She meant it to be harsh, but it rang more with patient amusement than cruelty. 

He affected indignation with a wave of his hand. "The least you could do is call me Jack. Or Captain Jack, if you prefer." 

"You're a clown, _Captain Jack_."

Jack leaned his head back, as if contented with this acknowledgment. The silvery moonlight threw his profile into sharp relief, exposing a half smile. "Reconsidered yet, love?" he asked.

"I don't need your charity," Anamaria said furiously. "This is my ship. I belong here, I have work here, I—I—"

"—you're miserable here," he finished for her. "I may be a clown, but ol' Jack is no fool. You're miserable, and I know just why. No need to scowl at me—I won't say it if you don't want me to. Just be sure I know."

"So what?" she asked sarcastically. "I can look after myself."

Jack didn't reply. She watched him blithely, made bold by rum and despair. With the ship so far below, it seemed as if the two of them were sailing together, alone in the starry night, serenaded by the sea's voice. Together and alone, a truth and a paradox. For no matter how many people she was with, or who they were, Anamaria had always felt alone. Solitude insulated her against fears of all sorts, and in its protective cloak she could face anything. Even Jack Sparrow and his knowing eyes. 

Those eyes fixed her benevolently. She saw herself mirrored in them, and him mirrored in hers, and on and on and on. . . . The thought made her dizzy and she gripped the rail reflexively. When the stars stopped spinning, she realized Jack was offering her something. She accepted it, held it in her hand, examined it carefully. 

"It's a rose, love," Jack said lightly, "Have you never seen one before?" 

It was a rose, or rather an imitation, cleverly twisted out of red cloth. She had indeed seen roses, and this was a fair copy. In the moonlight it looked almost real. No one had ever given her a flower before. 

"Some things are beautiful regardless of their surroundings," Jack observed, studying the sky. 

Anamaria gazed at the mock rose for another moment before tossing it to the wind. "It's a piece of cloth," she stated flatly.

He cocked his index finger at her. "That depends on how you look at it." 

"I'll take a bottle of rum over any number of roses," she retorted, grabbing for the jug and swallowing the dregs. 

"Why not both?" he suggested, weaving slightly and painting pictures with his hands, "Excitement and beauty. Adventure and reward. It can all be yours, if you come with me."

Anamaria snorted. "You're not much of a romantic. Money, ships, liquor, women, more money . . . don't you want anything worth having? Why should I leave my ship—my _home_—to join you? What can you offer me?"

He became suddenly serious, the lines of mockery fading from his face. His eyes, deep and inscrutable, gave a glimpse of the mind and heart usually kept hidden. He replied with one word: "Freedom." 

"Freedom! Freedom!" Anamaria laughed, "A toast to freedom!" She tossed the empty rum bottle the way of the rose and mirror, nearly losing her balance in the process. Jack caught her arm to steady her, and the two of them swayed precariously. 

"Careful," he said, "You shouldn't be climbing down any time soon, love. Best stay up here with me." A meaningful smile graced his lips, full of teasing humor. 

"Up here is the closest I'll ever get to freedom," she giggled painfully. 

"Freedom is your own ship," he mumbled, "Freedom is with me. . . . Freedom is the _Black Pearl_."

"The _Black __Pearl_? Is that her name?" 

"Aye, that's it. . . . She's the fastest ship in the world, graceful as a maiden, strong as a warrior, hard as cannonballs. You should see her. Her sails fly like great black clouds with—with lightning! Law-abiding folk shudder at her name. It's the place for you, love. The best pirate ship in the world" 

She shook her head in bemusement. "Why are you trying so hard? What do you care about me, anyway?" 

He answered with his eyes what he was too canny to express in words. Anamaria did not bother to deny him any more. Rum and sadness had broken down her defenses and inflamed her dormant loneliness. He might be a cad, but he was no less a kindred spirit. 

Their lips met, and the stars wheeled around Anamaria's head. The crow's nest swayed—or was it their bodies, drunk with the unexpected joy of having found each other, like a rose floating on the waves? High above the world, with the ocean whispering in her ears and Jack's breath hot on her skin, she felt frightened and liberated at the same time. She teetered on the edge of an abyss, and did not know if she wanted to fall or not. 

Neither of them remembered the night watch, alert and attentive on the deck below. 

*******

A/N: Wow, I don't update for a month and then this comes out of nowhere…. Ana, an existentialist? Jack, a romantic? WTF? If anyone knows what's going on here, please inform the author, because she's swaying giddily from some kind of mental crow's nest with a Johnny Depp/Peter O'Toole hybrid and can't think very much right now. But she . . . erm, _I_ hope you enjoyed this chapter despite its strangeness. There are three more chapters and I will finish them! Eventually! Ta ta, mates! Thanks for reading!    


	5. Drifting

Disclaimer: It's not mine, blah blah blah, don't sue me, please.

**A/N**: Finally, after another long wait… an update! Thanks for your patience, everyone, and I hope you like this chapter.

* * *

_Rum and Roses_

V: Drifting

Jack Sparrow was about to get some. He was sure of it. Absolutely _positive_, in fact. At least, he thought so. Unless it was the rum… liquor sometimes skewed his perception of reality. But that couldn't be the case this time, Jack knew with unquestionable certainty. He had won Anamaria over. The funny thing was, it felt less like winning and more like losing . . . some part of himself. Her eyes had been hard as ebony, but her lips were soft, and he felt as if they were stealing something from him. It was odd; somewhat unnerving, but sweet as well. Recognition flashed through his mind: it was surrender. Jack Sparrow, the ineffable, ever defiant Captain Jack Sparrow, had surrendered—to a cabin girl.

He pulled her closer, fingers drifting over the smooth skin of her neck as he cupped her chin, deepening the kiss. He never wanted to breathe again, if that meant breaking away. A resolution formed in his heart: he was never going to let this one go, never. She would come with him to the _Black Pearl_, he would station her in the crow's nest, at the helm, in his cabin . . . wherever she wanted. Whatever she wanted, as long as she didn't leave.

_"Anamaria!_"

Anamaria tore herself away from Jack so abruptly she nearly toppled from the swaying mast. The whites of her eyes shone with fear as she stared down at the deck, her lips trembling slightly. Alexander Moore stood there, massive hands bunched into fists and face twisted in a dark grimace of rage. The night watch waited a few feet behind him, shifting uncomfortably every few seconds.

_"Anamaria!"_ Moore roared again.

She cast one frightened glance at Jack and vaulted over the edge of the crow's nest. Jack grabbed for her arm, but missed and nearly fell. "Ana!" he called after her. She did not look up as she clambered unsteadily down the ropes. Mere seconds later, she jumped down to the deck and remaining standing uncertainly in the shadow of the mast, head down, with the air of a cornered animal. Jack watched, spell-bound, as she and her captain glared at each other, an invisible battle of wills raging between them. Then Moore strode imperiously forward and slapped her once.

Cursing, he sprang after her, but had to stop and cling for dear life as the world spun dizzily around his head. He began to suspect he had drunk too much, a fact which was not going to help him in the near future. After a moment, however, the careening ship calmed, his inner balance returned, and he felt steadier. He slid down the rope and landed solidly at Anamaria's side, crossing his arms casually.

"So, _Captain_ Jack," Moore said, curling his fingers around Anamaria's arm, "passage on my ship wasn't enough for you? Had to help yourself to my rum and my woman, too, eh? I'm afraid the captain's courtesy doesn't extend that far. . . ."

"I'll pay you for the rum," Jack said pleasantly, "I'll pay triple, once I get my ship back and some plunder. But you'll have a hard time convincing me Anamaria _belongs_ to you."

Moore pulled her closer to him. "That's none of your business," he growled.

Jack could see Ana watching him from beneath her eyelashes. She no longer looked drunk. There was an odd glint in her eye, and she did not drop her gaze. What. . . ? Was she trying to tell him something?

"I'm making it my business," he drawled, the beginnings of anger flaring in his heart.

"You won't want to be doing that, my boy." The captain's voice had become silky and dangerous. "Me and my crew won't stand for it. Downright foolish idea, they'd say."

"For someone else, it might be foolish. But _I_ am Captain Jack Sparrow." Jack flashed his most ingratiating grin, careful to keep the amusement off his face when Moore scowled into his beard.

"You're a daft, little bastard, that's what you are!" Moore growled, pushing Anamaria behind him into the clutches of the night watchman. Jack cast her a covert glance. She was still watching him silently, a line of concentration hovering on her brow. _What_ was she up to? Why didn't she tell her oaf of a captain she didn't want him? Jack had a difficult time believing she was too frightened. Despite the unpleasant situation she had been living in, she did not seem the cringing type.

Jack took a step back, edging around the mast, until he stood by the rigging. He kept his eyes fixed on Moore. He would kill the bloody brute, if necessary. Jack despised men who harmed women, particularly those he had taken to. It was disgusting and contemptuous. The fine art of seduction did not incorporate force in any shape or form. Unfortunately, Moore clearly had the advantage, and Jack disliked acting without the odds on his side.

"What say we make a deal?" he asked, holding his quick hands up diplomatically. "You drop Anamaria and me off at the next port, and I'll give you seventy-five percent of my next plunder."

Moore laughed rudely. "I don't need no pirate's booty! Rum-running pays all I want. And I won't have any man taking what's mine. Make no mistake, Sparrow—Anamaria is _mine_."

"Pity," Jack reflected, "I'll just have to kill you, then."

No one moved. Moore stared at him expectantly, red eyebrows raised. The silence continued serenely for another minute, before the captain burst out laughing, doubling over in mirth. At that instant, Jack grabbed the rope above his head, slung it nimbly around Moore's neck, and wrenched as hard as he could. The captain gurgled and toppled forward, ramming his solar plexus into Jack's fortuitously placed boot. Moore's knees buckled, flooring him, but his still hands shot out, reaching for Jack, who leaped nimbly away with only a slight sensation of giddiness. Simultaneously, a man's shout rang through the night air. Jack swayed, regaining his balance just in time.

"Jack!" Anamaria called. He whirled at the opportune moment, catching the object she had thrown him. It was the night watchman's sword. A second later, Ana disappeared, drawn into a scuffle with the watchman, who was trying rather half-heartedly to restrain her. Jack had no time to intervene, however, as Moore had already stumbled to his feet and drawn his own blade.

"I'll hang you from the bleeding crow's nest!" he howled, "by your own scurvy bootstraps!"

Jack whipped out the sword just in time to parry Moore's downstroke. His entire arm vibrated with the force of the blow. He dodged the next slash with a margin of error of less than an inch. The steel whistled as it passed his cheek.

"I don't need a haircut, mate," he said with reckless enjoyment, "The ladies love my luxurious locks. Just ask Ana—" He had to jump back a foot to avoid his opponent's whirling blade, and found himself backed against the ship's side. Without sparing a moment for thought, he leaped onto the railing and danced away, taking advantage of the higher, though more precarious ground.

"Bloody pirate!" Moore hissed, "I'll castrate you for touching her!"

"The fact is," Jack said conversationally, parrying a stroke, "she'd _still_ prefer me to an old"—block—"impotent"—stab—"pimply"—Moore growled—"gutless"—parry—"buffoon!" They locked blades, and Jack was forced to jump from the railing and retreat across the ship. Their blades clashed and separated almost too quickly to see. Jack had quicker wrists and feet, but Moore put his size to good use. The pair traveled back and forth over the deck, moving with the steps of an elaborate and improvised dance. But after a while, Jack's moves became increasingly defensive, and he retreated further and further. He had not slept, and the liquor had weakened him.

He kept up a stream of insults to distract Moore, and began to maneuver closer to the hidden stash of rum among the ropes. He almost missed it, but a few steps brought him within a foot of the bottles. Ducking a slash of Moore's sword, he curled his free hand around the neck of a bottle and hurled it at his adversary's head, lunging up to follow it with a direct attack.

By the time Jack realized he had miscalculated, he was almost dead. The bottle grazed Moore's head, but failed to stop or even slow him down. Caught off guard, Jack found himself running headlong into a sword thrust. He twisted away, contorting his body in a way he hadn't known was possible—and felt his blade fly from his hand.

He froze, staring at Moore's triumphantly grinning face, searching desperately for a way out. No escape in sight. Nothing that could be used as a weapon. No one to back him up. The ship shifted under his feet, the air was cool and liquid, the stars were shining brightly—and it was all useless because in a moment he was going to be dead. Oh, _damn_.

At that moment, divine intervention came. Anamaria shot in front of him, spreading out her arms and glaring at Moore with unprecedented fierceness. The watchman, galled at being outwitted by a girl, lumbered after her, but halted at a look from his captain.

"What's this, Ana?" Moore said carefully.

"You can't kill him. I won't let you."

"There's nothing you can do to stop me, silly girl. Move aside, or I'll move you—and you won't like that!"

Anamaria raised her chin. "You're right. I can't stop you from killing him. But if you do, you'll wake up one morning with my body swinging before your cabin window."

Moore stared at her, obviously taken aback. "What's gotten into you? He's a bloody stranger. Haven't I been good to you? What've you got for him?"

"I love him," she replied with calm dignity.

Ana's statement swept fear of impending death entirely from Jack's mind. He cocked his head, staring at her in shock. Had he heard correctly? _Love_? He considered all the women who had spoken those words to him. He'd never thought much of it—half of them were paid to say such things, and the other half were silly, if pretty barmaids whose sole purpose was to entice randy men to buy more drinks. For the first time in his adult life, the word "love" made an impression on him. Perhaps because, for the first time, it was meant sincerely, with no ulterior motive.

He wondered if she would care to take the post of first mate on the _Pearl_, after he shot Barbossa.

Moore had not taken Ana's assertion well. His expression darkened, if that was at all possible. Surprisingly, however, he sheathed his sword, and when he spoke, his voice was low and controlled.

"I see your wits have left you. Ungrateful wench! A quick death by the sword would be too good for you. _Hanging_ would be too good."

"You can't scare me, Alexander. Not anymore."

"You think not?" He smiled toothily and turned to the watchman. "Wake the crew," he ordered curtly, "Tell them to ready one of the boats."

A twinge of apprehension snapped Jack out of his amazed stupor. He laid his hand questioningly on Ana's arm, but she hunched her shoulders and did not turn to look at him.

Twenty minutes later, Jack and Anamaria watched the _Demerara_ recede slowly into the night. The ship became a toy, a vague shape, and finally a rapidly shrinking shadow. After another five minutes, it disappeared completely. The two of them gazed after it from the solitude of an otherwise empty boat, floating forlornly like a tiny island in the vast ocean. The water around them was black; the sky above glistened with brilliant stars. The moon had finally risen, casting paths of silver light onto the waves. The murmur of the sea seemed like silence compared to the familiar sounds of a ship. They were alone in a wasteland, as surely as if they had been stranded in a desert.

The boat bore no food, no water, and no oars. It was a shell, drifting without direction in an expanse of water too wide to contemplate.

"What are the odds of reaching land?" Jack wondered aloud, hoarsely. Anamaria did not answer, but her shoulders slumped.

Jack's hand strayed to the pistol in his belt. Moore had allowed him the irony of keeping it. One bullet. He met Ana's gaze. She looked very beautiful; the moonlight shone on her dark hair, pooled in her eyes, outlined her lips and the contours of her face in elegant black and white. His fingers slid along the handle of the weapon. _One bullet_.

Then she kissed him, and all thoughts of pistols and bullets became obsolete. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him as he had yearned to do since he'd first seen her. Though death was now almost certain, she seemed to have left fear and hopelessness behind on the _Demerara_. Here, she was alive and happy, finally free of the suffocating prison now sailing away into her past. He felt her joy, letting it envelop him.

The stars wheeled overhead, and they waited.

* * *

**A/N:** Every pirate story needs its sword fight. : ) LOL, I admit I laughed when Moore said he wasn't interested in pirate booty… how sad is that, laughing at your own jokes? Sorry for any typos, it's late and I'm too tired to spell-check properly. Not much further to go on this story, I'll update again as soon as I can! Thanks for reading!


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